In The Closet
by newbluemoon
Summary: Written for the batmanjoker Secret Santa challenge. During a Christmas party, Alfred witnesses something that shakes his world to the core. M/M, sex, language, unbeta'd. Reviews are awesome! ;D


**Disclaimer:**All of this belongs to the evil masterminds at DC who are severely, and unfairly, cock-blocking these boys. Not cool DC, not cool. So naturally I had to relieve the strain a little bit. ;) I'm a damn humanitarian! SO DON'T SUE ME **Warnings: **Sex, swearing, slash, un-beta'd.  
**Prompt:** '_Joker and Batman have hot sex while someone (Rachel? Gordon?) watches it all. Maybe it can be holiday related? Like at an Xmas party? It doesn't have to be though. NC-17 please!'_  
**Author's notes: **Okay, so this turned out to be a tad longer than I intended. I originally planed for it to exceed no more than around 3000 words but, y'know, shit happens. Also, for some reason, I keep imagining this in the same universe as the story I wrote for the Halloween anon challenge, 'The Raconteur'. However, you don't have to read that to understand this story at all. It's probably just my sleep deprived brain drawing parallels in my writing. Another thing, I know the prompter suggested Rachel and Gordon, but every time I tried to write them into the plot, it felt forced, so I just had to go with Alfred. Sorry. :\ I hope this is semi-okay. Oh and yes, the title's ridiculously cheesy, but hey, I'm a sucker for puns. :p

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If you lived in Gotham city, you knew when there was a holiday or some kind of event approaching, because you could _hear _it and tonight, Bruce Wayne's penthouse apartment could be heard from the _Narrows._All the elite, with their perfectly gelled hair and pristine teeth as fake as the smile they were showed off in, flocked into the promised 'hot spot' for the Christmas Party, with tangerine faced girls strapped to their arms. The ultimate accessory. The place was bustling, filled to the brim with gossiping gold-diggers and trust fund babies promising to donate money to starving Muslim babies in Africa so that they could have a real Christmas. Little blonde ladies dressed in tiny polyester Santa dresses sneaked off to the bathroom to throw up that cocktail sausage they'd politely eaten so as not to raise suspicion, whilst their boyfriends pressed themselves a little too close to the blushing waitresses, a sleazy smirk plastered on their botoxed faces. And the music, if you could call it that, was vibrating the walls in a stream of curse words and computerised voices, the guests having long since dropped the pretence of the calming, sophisticated opera as they bobbed their immaculate heads and ground into each other in a way that just screamed sex and money.

In the corner, an elderly man watched the display with a disdainful look on his wrinkled face. Despite what people may think, it wasn't because he was a British man and thus disgusted with the lewd behaviour, far from it. He had been a member of the secret service in the _sixties. _He'd seen things more explicit than what these youngsters could imagine even in the pits of their twisted masturbatory fantasies. There wasn't anything sexual that could shock this man. It was the whole stench of falseness that was crawling through the air that made his upper lip curl up. He should be used to it by now, but back in Mr and Mrs Wayne's time, people began to actually give a damn, or if they didn't they disguised it well. Now, it was clear what the thoughts of these people held, and when his former ward was doing so much to change the state of Gotham, the stark contrast was shockingly apparent.

A loud crash and a girlish giggle signalled that someone had walked into a waiter and ruined a carefully balanced display of the finest French champagne. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Alfred sighed deeply, exposing his years, and turned his gaze to the dance floor, scanning the area for Gotham's secret vigilante who should be indulging fawning girls in a dance. After a minute or so of filtering through moving heads, Alfred found himself frowning. Although it was packed with people looking for a good time, the floor was well lit and he should've located his master by now. But there was no sign of the young Wayne.

'_Typical!'_ Alfred thought feeling slight irritation grace his usual calm demeanour. He'd spent hours trying to convince Bruce that for one night, for _Christmas_ , he could simply spend a few hours at one of his parties and forget that Gotham was crumbling in on itself. It took a _lot_of persuasion, but Alfred thought that he'd finally convinced the young man to stay for a short while at least. But it appeared that the vigilante had utilised his 'fancy ninja skills', as Alfred was so found of putting it, and sneaked out leaving an oblivious butler to deal with the hundreds of drunk Barbies and Kens. Actually, Alfred hadn't even seen Bruce since he'd made his toast to the charity they were raising money for. He had naturally assumed the billionaire was making his rounds amongst his false friends, but he must've slipped out when no-one was looking and decided to 'make his rounds' amongst other types of people.

Huffing, the old butler slipped out from the room and into the cooler hallway. He understood why Bruce would feel compelled to tend to the needs of the city, but he had _promised_ he wouldn't leave the penthouse tonight. Not unless something earth shattering was happening, but there had been no news and no explosions, so Alfred figured it was safe to assume that nothing major was going on at the moment. Trudging down the corridor with his characteristic poise, he began playing over whether he would give Bruce a stern talking to like he did when he was eight or merely the silent treatment. It would probably prove to be ineffective either way. Bruce didn't usually listen to his objections these days. He knew he was still respected by his young master, but Bruce was so independent and headstrong now, it felt like the only person he'd listen to was the Batman. Alfred often found himself worrying about the line that needed to be drawn between the two personae, but he'd let it slide, partially out of fear of how Bruce would react if he knew the elderly man thought Batman was taking over. Bruce was becoming so wrapped up in the crusade he'd adopted for himself that he was loosing himself within the scourge of the city and the murky black of his armour.

If he wasn't on duty, Alfred would've gone and poured himself a large, stiff drink. There was only so much fretting one could do whilst sober. It would take its toll eventually and he knew his wrinkles had become more prominent these days, the deep marks tracing frowns over his face, letting outsiders know he was under stress. He never regretted his position or his life with the Wayne family and he would never give up on the boy he'd brought up as his own, but sometimes, even wise old men need to get completely and utterly blathered. But he had to hold the fort until that sneaky little hero got his backside home, but that didn't mean he was going to sit in the sauna-like room full with airheads with bank accounts larger than their brains. No, he was going to sit in the surveillance room his paranoid employer had installed. That way he could avoid slurring blondes and over-friendly walking chequebooks whilst keeping a vigilant eye on the guests. Keying in the five digit number, the high security door opened and Alfred quickly shut it behind him, locking out all of the remaining cacophonous commotion of the party.

He flounced onto the leather chair, thanking all kinds of Gods for Bruce's mental defects which resulted in him having a presidential level security system in place '_Just in case.' _Rubbing his face with the back of his hand, Alfred leaned back, letting the stress ease off of his body and melt into the careful folds of the comfortable chair. Putting his feet up on the control panel, he knocked a button, allowing the sound to de-mute. Giggling and cheers and thudding music filled the room and Alfred groaned. He felt the early stages of a headache pound in the back of his mind and he pushed himself forward, his face the picture of irritation as he tried to figure out which one of the many buttons would shut off the noise. Back in his day, things that controlled other things were bloody labelled accordingly. How hard could it be to stick a 'Volume' sign on a button? Fiddling with something that seemed to merely changed the tone of the sound, he growled lowly in frustration and slammed his hand onto the control panel.

As all the bustle of the soiree cut off, Alfred silently thanked fate for angry tantrums. Sighing, he allowed himself to sink back into the chair once again and closed his tired eyes and finally he could relax. Just as he felt his stiff muscles and arthritic bones relax a low, lusty moan filled the room and itched at his ear drums and his eyes sprang open in surprise. Dark grey orbs flickered over to the 20 or so screens that were situated on the wall, watching over the penthouse. He watched as the party goers continued to bump and grind, silent laughter showing on screen. So it wasn't from there. Alfred moved his eyes to another screen, and another and another as the moans grew more pronounced and he grew more flustered. Obviously a couple of opportunistic people had found an empty room and decided to make the most of it, but Alfred certainly wasn't going to watch or listen to _that._ He respected privacy more than the average man, considering how much he did to ensure Master Wayne's privacy, and he had no desire of watching two (or perhaps more) mindless heirs and socialites rut like rabbits. So he wanted to locate the screen number and turn it off. Stat.

His tired eyes darted from one screen to the next, desperately trying to find the location of the... activity, when finally his eyes moved across a fairly pixilated image of two figures moving against each other as one backed another up against a wall. Squinting, Alfred realised with a start that the pair were in his Master's room and dangerously close to pressing against the entrance to his make-shift batcave. The door was equipped with a finger print reader and it would be near impossible for anyone other than Bruce and himself to access it, however Alfred simply couldn't afford to take that chance. Bruce's secret was something he'd protect with his very life, and he wasn't about to let a couple of sexually charged socialites unwittingly stumble upon it. Neglecting to switch off the volume, he moved as fast as he could without rousing any suspicion and trying not to run. Elderly butlers did not run. But they bloody well moved briskly.

Reaching Bruce's bed chamber, he knocked on the door and gave the miscreants time to adjust themselves before opening the door slowly. An attractive blonde woman whose face was painted a shameful cherry was pulling down a black haute couture ball gown as her dishevelled partner, who Alfred recognised to be the heir to a rival company, was glaring daggers at the old man. The butler adopted a facial expression which he would use on Bruce to express his disappointment and incredulity and watched them with disproving eyes as they scurried out the door, the man muttering "cock blocker" on his way past. Alfred rolled his eyes at the sentiment. Honestly, young people. Everything was greed with them. Greed for money, for fame, for materialistic items, for sex. They had over active credit cards and over active libidos, and Alfred was glad he was no longer a part of that.

Turning around, he surveyed the damage to the room and set about straightening slightly crumpled bed sheets, dreading to think what had previously happened in this room and making a mental note to change them once the party was over. He doubted Bruce would be back before then anyway. As he smoothed the sheets over, he glanced up and noticed that the closet door was cracked open, the light from within creating a path across the darkened room. Some of the nosey airheads must have succumbed to the whims of curiosity and just plain rudeness and had gone snooping amongst Bruce's clothes, not doubt attempting to separate the bespoke and off the peg pieces with savage scrutiny. Tisking, Alfred walked towards the walk-in-wardrobe and opened the door fully. To his dismay, clothes were strewn all over the place, draped over boxes, only half on their hangers. The whole closet was in complete and utter disarray. Dragging a stressed hand down his leathered face, he sucked in a large gulp of air and prepared to clean up the horrendous mess.

Exhaling deeply, he began removing a tuxedo jacket from a pile of Ralph Lauren polo t-shirts and dusted off any residue powder that the painted dolls who had pawned the clothing had left. The nerve of these people never ceased to amaze Alfred. He respected people more than most, he realised this. When you've spent desperate years working amongst war zones, surrounded by limbs no longer attached to their owners, murdered babies and remains of people you could never have helped and yet you still see the victims of such atrocities force a smile and stretch their hand to you, you learn to respect people. So when he witnessed behaviour like this, as though these people just did not give a damn about what they did or who they did it to in search of a juicy chunk of gossip, it conjured up a pool of bile in his stomach. But that was just how the world works. And Alfred was someone who could accept anything the world threw at him.

He began picking up Bruce's underwear off the hat racks, and he didn't even want to know why someone had placed them there, when he heard a scuffle come from outside of the closet. Pausing, he became very quiet for a moment, just listening. Muffled gasped and the unmistakable sound of wet mouths meeting were emitted from the new people in the room. Alfred fought hard against the urge to groan. _Again?_ What was wrong with these bloody young people? Could they not leave each other alone for a few minutes while he cleaned up their mess? Furrowing his brow, he observed the closet he was in and the underwear in his hand and he could have hit himself in the face. He knew exactly what this looked like and what the pair would say should he exit the closet and no good could come of that. Normally, he wouldn't give a damn what people thought of him as long as they stayed the hell out of his business, but whatever it was that they would assume about him for hiding away in a closet surrounded by the boxers of his young master is not something he could stomach right now. So he'd just wait it out. Endure.

Still, Alfred was considering plugging his ears with his fingers like a child would in order to block out the ruckus. The two who were invisible to his eyes were certainly making their presence known to his ears. Masculine moans were filtering through the air, accompanied by sharp intakes of breath and the harsh bang of shoes hitting the floor. And Alfred was _just_ about to silence the noises with his hands when he heard a sound akin to nothing he would ever in a million years associate with bedroom activity and it made his very core shudder. A loud, maddened cackle pierced the air, so high pitched and unique there was no mistaking just who it belonged to. Like being drawn to watch a disaster on TV, Alfred felt something magnetic drag him towards the wardrobe door, desperately not wanting to see but somewhere the need to confirm his worst suspicions was winning the battle for control of his legs.

Holding his breath, Alfred peered through the cracks in the door panel not wanting to know what lay beyond it But there it was. There _he_ was. Lizard green filthy hair, purple suit, bottomless eyes and _that laugh._ It was almost as if he was mocking Alfred with it, its shrill tone causing the old man to shudder. But it was what caught Alfred's attention next that had the Englishman almost bowling over in shock. The person the clown was clawing at and writhing against wasn't a random party goer nor some pretty little escaped asylum patient. It wasn't even that Quinn girl that Alfred had seen making candid appearances on the news. The image of a tall, tanned man with rippling muscles and marred flesh grabbing back at the Joker with equal, feverish passion would have been fairly difficult to process, but the fact that the person engaging in such depravity was Bruce just about stopped Alfred's heart.

Clasping a shaking hand over his gaping mouth, the butler stared transfixed as the two outlaws moved with such fluidity even amidst their heated passion that it was obvious they were well practised at the deed. Alfred felt sick. He had to muster up ever last morsel of self control he possessed to refrain from gagging audibly as he watched his surrogate son near tear the mass murderer's mouth of in a biting kiss. They were savage, obviously channelling the emotions they carried during battle. Hate and anger manifested as primal lust as nails scraped across clothed bodies, desperate for purchase on the material, and teeth gnashed at any form of bare flesh they neared. Snarling at each other like starving coyotes, they looked as though they wanted to consume the person they were kissing and destroy themselves at the same time. Like they wanted to bask in their ruin.

It was maddening and Alfred could _taste_ the filth in the air. Still, he couldn't bring his wide eyes to move themselves from the terrifying sight. It was earth shatteringly repulsive, but he would have been a fool to not at least on some morbid level find it intriguing. As an onlooker of Bruce's dual life, he had gradually observed the billionaire sink further into the clutches of his monster, bit by bit dispersing under its weight as it shaped Bruce into something more suited to its world, not the other way around. It had caused the elderly man many sleepless nights, but to see Bruce unleash that monster for another similar creature to... _play_ with was horrifying and fascinating.

There was no doubting that the two were cut from the same cloth as they snarled at each other in between tearing and pulling at clothes obsessed with possessing the other entirely. Alfred had to wonder what if Bruce's circumstances had been different. If he had not been there for the young man after _that night,_ if there had been no Gordon, or no Rachel or no financial aid, what would Bruce have become? Seeing the darkness flicker in Bruce's shady oceanic blue pools as he ripped his mouth off the Joker's, reptilian eye-red paint smearing up his face, Alfred didn't have to question it. And it was heartbreaking. He was witnessing his entire family, hell his _life_ fall apart under the clutches of this maniac and there was nothing he could do but look on in dismay.

Bruce let out a feral growl as the Joker took too long shedding his gaudy outfit, having only succeeded in removing the jackets and vest, and shoved the gloved hands out of his way. As soon as scrambling fingers dug into hexagonal print fabric, he viciously pulled it apart, sending buttons flying everywhere, coating the floor with polluted evidence. However, there was not a hint of hesitation or even a glimmer of caring on Bruce's stormy face as he set about removing a tie from a slender, shockingly sun kissed neck. Alfred almost gasped at the appearance of human skin. He did not under any circumstances ever want to see this _animal_ as a human being. But his flesh looked horrifically soft, malleable even, and the deep scars of his maimed body only reinforced the notion that this force of nature was confined to a human vessel and, as such, was vulnerable. He was _real._ Somewhere in Alfred's mind, he'd been reluctant to believe this, never fully accepting that the terrorist actually existed. It was unfathomable to him. Yes, he'd seen inconceivable horrors in this twisted world, but they came and went. He knew that this was one being who would rise even out of a burning forest, grim glee plastered across a demonic face. He was an anomaly, but he was also proof that real people could become a shadow of humanity. And seeing Bruce with the same glint of insanity in his glare was something Alfred never wished to see. But there it was.

The vigilante moved his mouth down in order to ravage the villain's neck with his teeth and lips as he removed the Joker's trousers, hands ghosting over body parts that never should have been seen by Alfred. Emitting another low growl in response to the mewling noises made by the Joker, he shoved the man violently onto his bed, hovering over him as he shed his own clothes. His own slashed body was revealed under the harsh, diseased glow of the yellow lamps. The Joker gazed upon it hungrily, appreciative rumbling noises erupting from his throat. The way the well-defined muscles moved subtly underneath his skin gave away the level of tense excitement the playboy held. Alfred had patched up that skin himself countless times, tending to wounds inflicted by maniacs like the naked one spread out on Bruce's bed, waiting for Batman's next move. Hell, Joker had made some of those marks with his own callous knives, shedding precious blood, but even the skin that Alfred knew so well was different now. It was glistening with a thin layer of sweat and twitched with Bruce's muscles, preparing for, what? An attack? Everything was different now. Tangled and frayed thoughts twisted through Alfred's brain, vehemently attempting to try and shed some like on the situation. He wanted desperately to know, to _understand_ why the man he brought up had dissolved so much that he was looming nude over the equally bare flesh of his arch enemy, sexual arousal evident in each of them, even clouding their impassioned eyes.

How could Alfred not have noticed the changes in Bruce's routine? There had to have been some. The familiar way they reacted to one and other suggested this was anything but a one time thing. Then again, Bruce's life was utter chaos recently, nothing was linear and scheduled events never seemed to adhere to Bruce's plan, so it would have been almost impossible to keep tabs on the billionaire when he was burying himself into his chaotic, hectic life. Still, Alfred couldn't help but feel responsible. Maybe if he'd payed closer attention, provided more comfort for Bruce he wouldn't have sunk into the ravenous arms of the madman. He could've prevented this cataclysmic turn of events. He might have been able to stop everything Bruce stood for and fought against from disintegrating. He could've _helped._

As Bruce launched himself on top of the Joker, the bed moaning in protest, Alfred wanted to scream. To yell, to rage and foam until he burst a vital blood vessel, but he just stood there. Numb. Exhausted. Frozen. He couldn't even blink as the madmen's cocks ground against each other, eliciting harsh moans that cut off in searing kisses and quick gasps. As his master tilted his head back in ecstasy and the Joker pulled it back down again in order to brutally attack his lips, Alfred could not summon the strength to avert his eyes. He felt like a zombie, a corpse of a man. It was like looking into a black hole, witnessing the end. And he was being sucked into its pull. Not able to resist staring unblinkingly at the resulting explosions.

The Joker dug glove-less finger tips (and when did he get rid of those?) into Bruce's shoulders and yanked them, upturning the position so that he was straddling the larger man, who didn't even try to resist the switch of power. And if was just So. Fucking. Wrong. The Joker murmured something inaudible to Alfred's ears but the way a lecherous grin plastered itself across the billionaire's face in response made his stomach churn. He could hardly recognise his ward in those fiercely blazing eyes now. He had morphed into something hideous. Something apparently more than willing to let the Joker continue his exploits on his body. And that's what made it worse. Alfred had been hoping, praying to every deity he knew the name of that Bruce was somehow being forced or blackmailed in this debauchery, but the way his smile spread across his handsome face and his blue eyes twinkled with a dusting of desire told him otherwise. Bruce wanted this just as much.

The grinning psychopath planted a quick kiss on eager lips before slowly beginning his descent towards Bruce's nether regions. Alfred watched, hypnotised by the grotesque, catastrophic display as the Joker let his venomous tongue encircle an erect nipple, dragging deep moans from a contracting throat. Bruce retaliated by bucking his hips, itching for more friction between their bodies. The Joker giggled quietly at the desperate attempts and teasingly drew a path with his tongue from Bruce's broad chest to his pelvis, lapping at the hip bone he found there. Bruce's face was scrunched up, his hands grabbing onto bed sheets so hard that there was a stark contrast between the normal flesh coloured hand and the cocaine-white knuckles. He looked like he was in pain. Alfred _wished_ that he was. The fact his master was drawing pleasure from this scratched away at Alfred's straining sanity. He swallowed. Hard. His throat becoming tight under the weight of the looming tragedy he knew was coming.

The Joker was making pleasured humming sounds as Bruce's hands came up to bury themselves amongst dirty seaweed curls, coaxing the head they were attached to move further downwards. A devious glare descended on the Joker's painted pasty face and he dipped is head, obliging in Bruce's silent request. Alfred couldn't stop whatever was inside him from surging up in his throat as he watched a tongue, that he was used to seeing swipe out in a tic, flick out and trace a vein down the vigilante's engorged member. The elderly man gagged and fumbled for a handkerchief in his jacket pocket, spitting out vomit, attempting to remain unheard. After taking in a few deep breaths, he glanced back up at the men. They remained oblivious as the Joker closed his ruined, lipsticked mouth over the swollen head of Bruce's dick, swirling the pink muscle around the sensitive slit. Bruce let out a harsh rasp and bucked his hips, obviously aching to feel more of that terrible mouth. The Joker stilled momentarily as the head hit the back of his throat without his consent, but quickly regained composure, not even gagging, and pulled his mouth agonisingly slow back over the shaft, releasing it with a '_pop'. _Bruce groaned in frustration, his model-worthy features scrunched up, face blazing.

The Joker '_tsked'_ at Bruce's actions, wagging a sarcastic finger.  
"Now, now Batsy", he chided, his wicked, hauntingly nasal voice stinging Alfred's eardrums, "We've spoken about your, uh, _control_ issues". The sound of the Joker's voice shattered any thoughts that butler had been clinging on to that this wasn't the _real _mastermind that Bruce was _with._ It was just some carbon copy that Bruce had hired for... comfort or so he could indulge in deathly fantasies. There wasn't any faking _that _voice. And he _knew._ That sole word confirmed all the demons pitchforking Alfred's currently vulnerable mind. The murderous clown knew exactly who Bruce was and the fact that the only other person left alive who possessed the knowledge of Bruce's other life was a mass murdering clown fiend tore through Alfred like an earthquake. On some petty level, he was angry. Angry that he had endured decades of sorrow as the boy he had loved as his own kin grew into an unstable, yet good young man. He had been with Bruce through it all, always trying to be the remaining constant element in Bruce's life. He _deserved_ to know. This creature had sliced open Bruce's family, ripped his love out from under his feet and perverted her memory in the form of Harvey Dent, making Bruce confront the mental image of her charred, rotting carcass each time he faced _Two Face. _It was all the clown's fault. And this was the man Bruce was coupling with right now in front of the grey haired man's abused eyes. A force of pure undiluted pain and suffering. There was nothing redeemable here.

But as Bruce whined in pleasure when the Joker finally gave into his demands once more and engulfed the entire member in the cavern of his mouth, Alfred could see nothing was too sacred for the vigilante to ignore now. He was happily, _hungrily_ bucking his hips up to meet with the mouth of the man who had brutally murdered his childhood friend and sweetheart. Had he forgotten about her? Did it mean anything that this man nonchalantly had her lit ablaze without a seconds hesitation? Alfred couldn't take it any longer. He finally yanked his head away from the door and scrunched up his eyes, wanting to block out what was happening. But he could still hear the sounds. The wet smacking of lips sucking over hard flesh, tumultuous, lust stricken moans tainted with need and creaky bed springs. A disgusting litany basking in its own arrogance in the sweaty air. Alfred couldn't get away from reality. It was chasing him with bloodhound intent. Even behind the dark curtains of his eyelids, he could still see them, could still unwillingly picture the Joker's spoiled lips devouring his master's manhood. Images of Bruce's pleasure stricken face flooded his non-consenting mind, accompanying the lewd noises. He had an inkling that these horrors would lie in the dark corners of his consciousness for a long time. How was he going to face Bruce? Knowing everything that he did, how could he look into the sincere, pained eyes he knew so well and force a warm smile as he placed a cup of tea on his night stand in the morning, knowing just what had gone on in the bed where he lay?

The groaning of the bed became louder as whatever they were doing increased in speed and the air was laced with the ever deepening sound of Bruce's uninhibited moans which were coated in a series of curses. Alfred found himself wondering whether or not the party guests had heard the perverted chorus, if the level of the diseased noises was high enough to champion over the din of the party, or if the situation he found himself in just made it seem louder to his throbbing brain. An inhuman growl interrupted his thoughts, the noises accompanied by the objection of the mattress and a whooping laugh from the green haired fiend. And then it was quiet. Alfred's eyes blinked open, his breath stilling. Various scenarios flicked over his strained mind. Had Bruce come to his senses and left the room? Maybe he'd finally awoken from this..._ spell_ or whatever the hell it was that was clouding his mind and punched the Joker's lights out. Or maybe the clown himself had attacked Bruce, finally relieving himself of the pretence of a lamb. Suddenly concerned for the well-being of his former ward, he hesitantly turned around, eyes squinting lest he see something worse than a bludgeoned bat

And he did. Bruce had reversed the positions once again so that he was hovering over the Joker's taught, athletic form. His experienced hand had closed itself around his enemy's dick and he was now fisting the organ at a steady pace. The Joker was returning his ministrations lazily, the task a little awkward to accomplish at the angle he lay in. Bruce's smouldering eyes were boring into the Joker's equally heated ones with one of the most impassioned looks the elderly man had ever seen. Yes, it was decorated with rage and lust, but there were things hidden in each of their expressions that Alfred never should have seen there. For the first time in this nightmare, he felt like he was intruding. Before hand, he'd merely felt insulted, disgusted and betrayed. Now, whilst he still felt these things, it was more akin to accidentally listening to a private, personal message.

Cursing himself Alfred tore his gaze away from the sight once more. But, he couldn't refrain from peeking despite all of his well justified reservations. It was similar to what he imagined it would be like to catch your parents making love. The horrific eye burning, soul shattering, poisoned truth twisted together with sick curiosity, driving him to look, even though everything inside of him was screaming to return to the solace of tightly welded shut eyelids.

He observed coldly as Bruce shifted off the Joker, leaning slightly to the side, his arm disappearing over the edge of the bed for a moment. The Joker's breath grew more shallow, not daring to remove his inflamed gaze from the crime fighter, who returned to his previous position and straddled the Joker. Leaning forward, he captured rough, devilish lips in another bruising kiss. Alfred heard as something clicked and Bruce sat up again, lips slightly swollen and cut from animalistic biting. Glancing at the billionaire, the grey haired man saw him holding a small, clear tube and squirt a portion of the contents onto his finger. He barely had time to realise just what it was for before Bruce had pounced back on top of the Joker and carefully inserted a lubricated digit inside of the clown, who sucked in a small volume of air. Feeling the increasingly familiar sensation of his churning stomach acids, Alfred curled his lip in disdain as Bruce plunged his finger rhythmically inside the mewling murderer, adding another somewhere along the way.

"_At least Master Wayne's a considerate lover",_his thoughts remarked cruelly and without humour. But it was unfortunately very much a true statement. Alfred didn't know why Bruce hadn't just shoved himself inside of the criminal, if that's the despicable level he intended to stoop to. The Joker was so obviously a masochist, and really, what did it matter if he hurt the terrible excuse for a man? In some, perhaps morally questionable, way it might have made it better, like this was just another form of punishment to a broken logic. But contradicting any semblance morality Alfred held once more, Bruce was instead opting to prepare his corrupted counterpart, carefully observing the ruined, painted face between rough kisses as he did so. And the psychopath was thrashing about and letting out whorish moans as his nails scraped down Bruce's back, leaving tendrils of blood in their wake. Alfred watched as his entire body racked with a shudder, causing Bruce to grin almost evilly as the Joker growled in desperation and pushed his body down onto Bruce's moving hand.

"Haven't lost your balls have you, Brucey?", the Joker panted, a teasing yet brutal edge to his voice. The crime fighter glared in response and dipped his head down to bite at the Joker's sweat slicked neck, eliciting deeper moans.  
"Turn over", the vigilante commanded, his voice speaking with that of Batman as he nipped at the murderous man's ear lobe. The commanding, dominating edge to that dark voice pulled a hard shiver from Alfred's aged form. If he was listening to the sound without any prior knowledge as to it's origins, he wouldn't have been able to recognise it as the voice of his master nor of that of Gotham city's dark knight. Giggling once more in sick anticipation, the Joker did as instructed, getting up onto all fours with his rounded ass sticking in the air. A small, corrupted smile spread on the lips of the billionaire as he slicked himself up with the lube and spread the Joker's firm globes, aligning himself up with the entrance he found there.

Alfred didn't know what to do or think right now. He was absolutely lost, his lip actually quivering under the pressure he felt accumulate within him. This would be playing havoc with his fragile heart. His head spun under the stress of the situation, causing him to feel more sick than he already did. He had believed there was nothing sexual that could shock him. He hadn't counted on this. _This _was more perverted than anything an army of stoned, swinging hippies could ever dream up even at one of those drug fuelled orgies he used to frequent back in his hey day as a secret serviceman in the sixties. It wasn't the whole 'gay sex' thing. Of course not. It wasn't as if Alfred hadn't had his _experiences_. But there was nothing in this entire event that wasn't wrong. Everything about it was tainted with moral perversion, it actually _hurt_ to watch. Maybe Alfred was merely in shock. He certainly was not expecting this when he decided by a mere twist of fate to clean the mess of a herd of nosey party guests. He just wanted it over now. He wanted to leave this room and the heavy atmosphere. Wanted to pour himself that drink and feel the grips of strong alcohol take over his frazzled mind and drag him into a deep sleep. He wanted to forget.

But he couldn't turn away again. The noises on there own were worse than the actual images. It meant he was more focused on one thing, and that was not something he wanted to be. It made it so much more potent. So much more painful. So he carried on letting his eyes move over the scene splayed out in front of him through the cracks in the door, trying to gain a sense of emotional detachment. Bruce was now sliding his hands over the Joker's hips as he began to push in slowly. The Joker grunted at the action and buried his face in an Egyptian cotton pillow, his hands gripping the material tightly. Bruce's fingers were making little indents in the Joker's scarred flesh as he held his breath until he was fully sheathed inside of the maniac's body. Gasps and pants filled the air as Alfred saw they had moved past the 'tough' part. He knew enough about gay sex to know that part had to be pretty painful for the 'bottom' of the situation, not that he could summon any form of pity for this monster even if he wanted to. But unsurprisingly this didn't seem to bother the Joker who's head rolled backwards in pleasure. It was to be expected. However, what Alfred witnessed next was something he never, ever expected to happen. Bruce leaned forward until his body was pressed seamlessly against the Joker's and pulled the other man up to his knees so that he could place eerily gentle kisses along his neck, maddened passion seeming to have subsided for the moment. Simultaneously, like a dance rehearsed to perfection Bruce's hands reached around the Joker's body, one moving up to brush against an erect nipple, the other stroking the madman's hard length, as the Joker's own arms reached backwards and grabbed Bruce's ass, pulling him closer into him. And they stayed like that for a little while. No sound but their own breathing and Joker's soft whispers of 'Bruce'.

And it was too much. Alfred had stood there and watched it all, taking it all in, letting it bury him, but remaining strong. But this was too damn much. He had withstood more than most normal people could take in similar situations. It was an admirable defeat. But it was defeat. And he welcomed it. The shock of that look on Bruce's face, one mirrored on that of his arch foe's, that look of pleasure, of _contentment, _caused all of Alfred's defences to crumble. There was nothing left to grab onto. Nothing to lean on for support. Everything was becoming dull and distant. He felt himself fall against the wall with a quiet thud and sink towards the floor. Then everything became black and he sunk into the warm solace of unconsciousness, momentarily leaving this heartache in the waking world. For Alfred was a strong, stoic man, but there are some things that rock even the most solid of foundations.

* * *

A short while later, the air had become laden with the hot, heavy scent of sex as the two enemies clawed at each other, nearing their release. Somewhere amidst the passion of their coupling, Bruce had turned the Joker around and he was now sitting in his lap, his chest pulled tight against Bruce's, as he moved up and down on his lover's cock, whining as his prostate was hit by every thrust of Bruce's hips. The vigilante's head was spinning with the sensations the green haired man was giving him. He raked his nails down the back of the madman, knowing that the pain was sought out, as he pumped the Joker's cock with a frenzied rhythm, trying desperately to keep it in time with his thrusts. He brought his mouth to his enemy's, capturing those sinful lips in a familiar scorching kiss and pushed the Joker down, so he was lay on his back underneath the billionaire. Bruce felt the blinding pleasure build deep within his pulsing balls and began to pound into the maniac with a renewed vigour and a string of grunts and curses.

The Joker was writhing around on the sweat kissed bed, his artistic hands grabbing at Bruce as he was overtaken by sensations he wasn't quite used to. Bruce let his hand wander back down to his counterpart's arousal, knowing he was edging the brink of orgasm, stroking him with relish. He loved to see the bane of his city vulnerable and needy beneath him, knowing that in order to orgasm, he needed Bruce. In the time since they had begun their... relationship, he had learnt that the other man was willing to take anything from Bruce, no matter how sick and depraved, and Bruce didn't need to question why. When he was with this man, he felt more needed than when he was risking his life for the city that so regularly abused him. And he'd given all kinds of treatment to the man moving around beneath him. He'd fucked him hard and fast against graffitied walls in alley ways where the floor was littered in used syringes and grime, not caring whether or not the murder felt pleasure, not touching him or kissing him even for a second. He wouldn't even look at him afterwards, merely adjust himself and slink off into the night, leaving the clown to take care of himself. Other times they'd visited sleazy motels and he'd learned more. Begun to care a little. A few times, the Joker had taken his current position and they'd joined in a wholly different way. It was _entirely_ bad. Alright, it was... nice. And there were times like now. It wasn't quite 'making love', he'd never treat one of his dates like he treated the Joker, but it was less brutal. Oh, it was still _raw_, but no longer deadly. Or at least not physically. He was well aware of what the consequences of these sessions could be.

Nearing his completion, he quickened his pace as well as his movements on the Joker's cock and was making noises usually reserved for the most hardcore of porn films as they thrashed against each other. He felt the other man stiffen against him and looked down to see that painted demon face scrunched up in total, overwhelming ecstasy, his scarred mouth hanging open slightly as pleasure tore through him like a knife through hot flesh. It was a sight Bruce was becoming very accustomed to. A sight he began to like, _crave_ even. And as he felt the clown's warm seed coat his slowing hand and his inner walls clench around him, the pressure in his balls overflowed and pleasure crashed down on him like a tidal wave of sensation and he threw his head back as he let out a barely audible moan. He knew the other man heard it. His orgasm ripped through him, sending him to a heart stopping completion as he spilled into his lover who moaned, happy to receive all Bruce had to offer. As always.

As the little aftershocks ripped through him, Bruce fell on top of the murderer, who immediately brought his arms around him, stroking wet, chocolate locks. Bruce wasn't one for cuddling, especially not with this man, but he didn't mind this. Just for a few minutes after they fucked, it felt pleasant to bask in the other's warmth for a little while longer. And besides, he felt damn good right now, and if the Joker kept caressing him in that manner, he'd be lulled into a comfortable sleep. Nuzzling into the chest of his foe, he listened to the other's still erratic heartbeat as it attempted to slow back down and sighed. He felt the genocidal fiend place a tender kiss on his head and was almost about to smile at the innocence of the human gesture. But then the demon spoke.

"Hey Bats, did you know someone's been watching us?" The Joker drawled, his fingers lazily playing on Bruce's skin. The playboy stiffened.  
"What are you talking about, Joker?", he growled, his voice a little croaky from sex. The madman giggled maniacally and brought a shaky hand up to point towards the door of his closet.  
"In there. I noticed them when we came in, but I didn't want to, uh, spoil the mood." Bruce didn't have to look at the man to know there was a stupid, ruby red grin plastered on his face, but his heart sunk at the words. He felt apprehension bubble inside of him. Was the Joker teasing him or could someone really have just witnessed the most private, protected thing in his life? His face stormy, he leaned up and glared over at the closet, too nervous to go and check. Glancing down, he saw the Joker staring up at him almost smugly in a way that suggested he needed to grow a pair, so he hauled himself up, yanked on a pair of discarded boxers and stalked over to his wardrobe. Hesitantly, he placed his hand around the door knob and slowly pulled it open.

His heart sank further than it had in a while as his blue gaze fell upon the picture of the man who raised him, unconscious on the floor. His eyes grew comically wide as he stumbled back slightly, before rushing forward to the butler's aid. He bent down to check his pulse which was beating steadily as he muttered "Shit, shit, shit" over and over again. The Joker sat up with curiosity and peered over Bruce to see who the lucky voyeur was. As his green eyes focused on the old man slumped against the wall, he fought the urge to cackle with glee. The _butler? _Oh, Bruce was going to be so _pissed._ Well, after he'd been spanked or grounded or however he was usually punished by papa.

"Well, that was one way to, uh, come out." the Joker said through a wide grin, fighting off waves of laughter. Bruce turned and looked at him with a murderous glare that screamed 'If you want to keep your kidney, shut the fuck up'. Bruce frantically thought over what he could do. What_ was_ there to do? In a way the Joker was right. Alfred would had to have found out at some point, he definitely didn't see this _thing_ with the Joker ending any time soon, and he couldn't keep lying to his mentor, but he never should have found out like _that._ Not only was it indescribably embarrassing for Bruce, it would make the shock just that much more potent. Alfred probably would never forgive Bruce for what he'd done, never mind accept it. Accept the Joker. And could Bruce really blame him? He knew what the Joker was and he knew what that in turn made him. He'd almost driven himself insane with internal battles concerning the morality, or lack there of, of what he'd been doing with the madman, but eventually he'd become resigned to the fact that this was something practically inevitable. But he couldn't expect Alfred to go through similar processes. But now he'd seen them... like that, everything had changed, maybe beyond repair. Bruce sighed, and moved Alfred into a flat position.

He turned around and looked at the Joker who was looking at the display with an almost childlike curiosity on his greasepaint covered face, obviously trying to figure out the reasons why Bruce cared for Alfred. The juxtaposition of the innocence in his gaze and his maimed flesh and the underlying hint of malice in his eyes should've unnerved him, but it was merely comforting to Bruce now. The man he so loved to fuck into oblivion was a complete enigma, but it was a puzzle he wanted to solve for himself. One he _had_ to solve. Looking back to Alfred, his kind, wrinkled features relaxed in his unconscious state, he realised there was no choice. He needed them both. There had to be a way for them to co-exist. Sighing, he moved his weary eyes back up to meet familiar emerald orbs.

"Go to the bathroom and get a damp wash cloth", he said to the man, gesturing to his en suite. A puzzled look graced the pasty-looking face, but he shrugged and got out of bed, neglecting to dress his naked, semen coated body and walked to the bathroom, limping slightly Bruce noticed with distant amusement. A far away part of his brain was listening to the quiet, dulling sound of the party guests as they finally cleared out of his penthouse, oblivious to the life altering scenario that had unfolded in his bedroom, leaving him here to deal with the remains of his life. Padding into the room, a wet flannel in hand, the Joker sat down next to him and handed it to Bruce. Their fingers brushed together briefly and Bruce let the tiniest of smiles grace his face before dabbing the cloth to Alfred's head.

"Go get dressed." he murmured without looking up, "You can't be naked when he wakes up". The Joker screwed up his nose in confusion, obviously expecting to be thrown out as the cause of all Bruce's problems. Bruce was mutually confused by his own actions, but attempted to remain stoic for all of their sakes. Maybe what had happened was some form of twisted fate or just a horrific coincidence, but it could potentially have been for the best. Right now, he couldn't imagine his life without either of these men in it, in one guise or another. They were absolutely pivotal. He was under no delusions that they could all sit around the table and have a nice Christmas dinner or any kind of dinner for that matter, but once Alfred had woken up and had some time to reflect on a few things, he would sit down with the two of them and _try_ to sort something out. He knew it wasn't going to be quite so simple. Having a parental figure catch you having sex with your lover was bad enough, but having that person be a member of the same sex was a tad worse. Having that person be your arch enemy and the most wanted, detestable man in your hometown was probably the lowest of the low. He cringed just thinking about what Alfred had witnessed, but there would be a way out of this mess.

He looked at the Joker who was still naked from the waste down and clumsily attempting to button up his crumpled up shirt, at the same time leaning forward to reach a forgotten tie. His foot, however had become tangled amongst the trousers Bruce had previously shed and as he leant forward, he lost his balance and tripped over, his legs whipping out from under him as he landed on his ass, a bewildered look on his face. Bruce couldn't suppress the chuckle that erupted in his throat at the sight of the disorientated clown sprawled on his floor. A while back, he'd come to an unsteady, almost painful, realisation about the clown, and it was little moments like these that confirmed it. Even in the worse scenarios, like the one they'd found themselves in right now, he was left merely detesting what the clown meant to him, but knowing he_ meant _a lot. Too much, maybe. Alfred began to stir under the wetness of the flannel, and Bruce felt his stomach lurch in nervousness. He quickly stared back over at the Joker with terrifying vulnerability on his face. This was going to be the hardest conversation of his life. Worse than confronting his fears with Ducard, worse than hearing the truths Rachel came out with after Chill's death. He knew they were all balancing on the edge of an ice-skating blade after the terrible way Alfred had found out, but there _had _to be a way to fix this.

There had to.


End file.
